Death in a Fishpond
by John Douglas
Summary: MIDSOMER MURDERS - Barnaby and Jones investigate a series of murders in the picturesque village of Midsomer Mallow, where Sir Richard and Lady Braithwaite have kindly consented to open their garden to the public.
1. Chapter 1

**DEATH IN A FISHPOND**

_by John Douglas_

_**Author's disclaimer : **Characters and places portrayed in this story that appear in episodes of "Midsomer Murders" and/or in novels by Caroline Graham are the property of their respective copyright holders. I assert copyright of such characters, scenes and situations as are not already copyrighted. This story is written purely for enjoyment and not for profit._

**CHARACTERS**

**D.C.I. TOM BARNABY, D.S. BEN JONES, JOYCE BARNABY, DR GEORGE BULLARD, P.C. ANGEL**

_plus_

**DICKIE BRAITHWAITE, **_a successful stockbroker, age: _59

**VIOLET BRAITHWAITE, **_his wife, age: _57

**TRIXIE, **_their eldest daughter, age: _29

**ELLIE PAYTON, **_their second daughter, age: _27

**DAVID PAYTON, **_Ellie__'__s husband, age: _31

**FLEUR, **_the youngest daughter of the Braithwaites ("the afterthought"), age: _13

**MARK SLOFIELD, **_age:_30

**DUNCAN SLOFIELD, **_his father, age: _61

**LESLEY SLOFIELD, **_Duncan__'__s wife, age: _60

**COL. ERNEST FISH, **_age:_70ish

**REV. HENRY CHATSWORTH-BROOKE, **_age:_55ish

**BETTY BOOTLE, **_age:_60ish

**MRS BEECHAM, **_housekeeper to the Braithwaites, age: _40ish

...

**Chapter One**

"One, two, three – _doe!, _a deer, a female deer, _ray!, _a drop of golden sun!" Violet Braithwaite pounded the keys of the rickety upright piano energetically and then stopped. "Stand up straight, Fleur darling, breathe right, right in – chest out – and again!"

Even obeying the injunction of her mother, Fleur's chest was remarkably flat for a girl of thirteen. Her thin little voice projected the words of the song with more enthusiasm than accuracy, but she was determined to get the part of Maria in the following term's school production of _The Sound of Music._

She had just brought us back to _doe _when the sound of the front door closing could be heard in the music room of the Old Hall, Midsomer Mallow. _"__Daddy, daddy!__"_cried Fleur, running excitedly into the hallway, where Sir Richard Braithwaite was divesting himself of his macintosh and bowler hat. "I can do all of _doe!, a deer_ now!" and she flung her arms round him.

"She's doing very well," said Violet, who had followed. "I'm convinced that Fleur will become a great actress."

"Yes, of course she will," said Dickie, "but what I need now is a gin and tonic." He led the way into the low-beamed sitting-room of the 16th century mansion and headed for the drinks cabinet. Dickie was a middle-aged man with a bald head, unremarkable apart from being little over five foot six inches tall. Every part of his body was small, including his feet, which were always encased, whenever he was in public, in shiny patent leather shoes. Violet on the other hand positively glowed with vitality and had large, slightly bulging eyes that seemed to pierce whoever she happened to look at. Unlike her husband, she was the sort of person that would always stand out in a crowd.

"Was it absolutely _ghastly _in London today?" asked Violet. "At least you don't have too much longer to go in that wretched office."

"Five months, Vi, and I can draw my top hat pension." Dickie poured a generous measure of gin over two ice cubes. He had founded _Braithwaite and Clarke_ with no more than one other partner, the eponymous Mr Clarke, but now it was one of the most prestigious firms of stockbrokers in the City, catering particularly to private investors with considerable means. "Oh, that's better." Dickie half-emptied the glass of gin and tonic and looked at this wife. "Do we have to have that Open Day here next week?"

"Yes, we do," said Violet, "we're in the Open Gardens scheme and Henry has advertised it in church." Henry was the Reverend Henry Chatsworth-Brooke of the church of St Simon and St Jude, which was a hundred yards up the road from the Old Hall. "Besides, it's time the sisters all got back together again."

Dickie groaned. "Oh no, not Trixie and Ellie."

"I don't remember Trixie," said Fleur, who had sat down on the floor and was hugging her knees.

"That's what I mean," said Violet. "She may have gone completely off the rails, but there's no excuse for not coming to see us for the last ten years."

"Bohemian, I suppose you would call her," said Dickie, taking a more moderate sip from his depleted glass.

"Hopeless, completely hopeless," said Violet, picking up the latest edition of the _Causton Echo _from the coffee-table and flicking through it. "But I don't know what you've got against Ellie."

"I haven't got anything against her, but that husband of hers is a bit of a stick."

"David is a good man, and he's rich," said Violet. "I approve of David."

"But why do they all have to come here?" Dickie sounded exasperated.

"I can't do all the catering on my own," said Violet, "and I can't expect Mrs Beecham to do everything."

"No, no, of course not," said Dickie appeasingly. He was about to get up to replenish his glass when a terrible thought struck him. "O, Lord!" he said. "She hasn't got another young man in tow, has she?"

"Well, if she has, he isn't coming," said Violet firmly. "Ellie made her promise."

"Hmm." Dickie sounded unconvinced.

"Here it is," said Violet, finding the Notices page, "Saturday 24th July, 2pm to 6pm, at the Old Hall, Midsomer Mallow. Lady Braithwaite and Sir Richard have kindly consented to open their garden to the public. Entrance £3.50. Proceeds to charity. Refreshments available." Violet stressed the last two words.

"Mmm."


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

"I don't want you to go and see them." Mark was a willowy young man with curly hair which kept falling over his face.

"What has it got to do with you?" screamed Trixie. She turned off the hob and emptied the saucepan of spaghetti in tomato sauce inelegantly onto two plates on the kitchen table. "I _have _to see them. And Fleur."

Mark sniggered. "Your baby sister."

"_Don__'__t _call her that. I hate her." Trixie picked up the pepper-pot and hurled it at Mark, who luckily ducked. The pepper-pot shattered on the fridge-freezer at the other end of the kitchen.

Trixie was a blousy young woman whose good looks had been coarsened by self-indulgence. Alcohol abuse had given her a bloated appearance which belied her twenty-nine years.

"Trixie, I've had enough of this," said Mark, going to pick up the pieces of pepper-pot. "You only came back to me because I've made some money." In fact he had made a small fortune from selling shares in _Vortex PLC _at the top of the market shortly before it crashed.

"Money, money, money, that's all you think about," said Trixie. To Mark's alarm she picked up the opened wine-bottle on the table, but it was only to drink from it.

"And you shouldn't drink so much," he said.

Trixie put the bottle down on the table with a bang. "I haven't come back to be told what to do," she said. "That's why I left Jake. He was always telling me what to do."

"You were with him for seven years," said Mark, "shacked up in that caravan in Essex. Or were there others?"

Trixie looked round for something to throw, but couldn't find anything within reach except the bottle of wine, which she was self-controlled enough to know was more valuable as a source of alcohol.

"Bastard," she said.

"You're a disgrace," said Mark, now into his stride. "You're an irresponsible mother."

"_What?" _Trixie stood up, her bloated face contorted with rage.

"Leaving your baby in a doorway like that," said Mark, attending to his spaghetti.

"_She was brought up by nuns! _And anyway, what about you? You're a thief!" Trixie picked up her plate of spaghetti and hurled it at Mark.

"That's it," said Mark, getting up and wiping some of the tomato sauce and spaghetti strands off his chin, the plate having crashed to the floor, "I'm off. I can't take any more of it," and he stormed out of the kitchen and out of his own house.

Trixie started to cry, the cheap mascara running down her cheeks, and took another slug of wine.

. . . .

. . . .

. . . .

David Payton gnawed his knuckles as he heard the _clip-clop _of Buster, the eight year old horse he had given to his wife as a birthday present, outside the window of their comfortable cottage in Midsomer Mallow. How could he tell her? He cleared his throat.

"Darling," said Ellie, bursting into the room in jodhpurs and riding boots and undoing her riding cap, "don't forget the Open Day next Saturday. We've got to go." She shook her long black hair onto her shoulders.

"Ah," said David, temporarily forgetting his mission. "Why have we got to go?"

"I promised Mummy."

"Ah." David cleared his throat again. He knew that even his best friends described him as dull, but he never felt as tongue-tied as when he had to tell his wife something she did not want to hear.

"What is it, David?" Ellie went out into the hall to hang up her riding cap. David felt compelled to follow her.

"You know – '_The Professor'_?"

"Ye-es," said Ellie patiently.

"I've had to sell him." David blurted it out and immediately felt great relief.

"You _what_?" Ellie sounded incredulous. "You must be joking."

"I'm not joking, Ellie."

"You sold our prize racehorse without consulting _me_? Who did you sell him to?"

"Mark Slofield."

"_Mark Slofield_ – that nouveau riche upstart?" David knew that Ellie regarded The Professor as her own and that her passion for horses was greater than her affection for him.

"I had to. I've lost my job, remember?" Redundancy had come without warning to David, who had thought, wrongly, that his hundred-thousand a year management post in a large construction company was secure for life.

"You're contemptible." Ellie snatched her riding cap from the peg in the hall again and said coldly "I'm going out on Buster."

David gnawed his knuckles.

. . . .

. . . .

. . . .

"Do we really have to go to this Open Day on Saturday?" asked Detective Chief Inspector Tom Barnaby, pulling on his shoes.

"Yes, we do," said Joyce, holding his jacket open for him. "The Braithwaites are very influential people. And anyway, I promised Betty."

"Who's Betty?" Tom tightened the knot of his tie.

"Betty Bootle. She's teaching me flower arranging in Midsomer Mallow church hall."

"Oh, well, in that case." Tom was convinced. He kissed his wife lightly on the cheek. "See you this evening, Joycee."

"Bye, Tom. And don't get mixed up in any more murders." She closed the front door behind him and returned to the kitchen, where she was keen to follow a Raymond Blanc recipe for roast turbot with fennel and anchovy essence.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

In a humble backstreet of Midsomer Mallow, Duncan and Lesley Slofield were engaged in washing up the dishes from their evening meal of sausage, egg and chips, when the front door bell rang.

"Whoever can that be, Lesley?" asked Duncan, wielding a tea-cloth.

"You'd better go and see, hadn't you?" said Lesley, who was elbow-deep in soapy water. The mature gentleman lumbered towards the front door at which stood his very own son.

"Mark!" he cried. "Fancy seeing you!" Duncan Slofield looked both pleased and surprised, but more surprised than pleased.

"I've come to stay for a bit, Dad," said Mark, "if that's alright."

"What's she done to you this time?" asked his father. "Bitten you? Beat you up?"

"Of course you can stay, dear," said Lesley, who had come to the door of the kitchen, drying her hands and forearms on an old towel. "Your room's still there, as you left it."

"Thanks, Mum." Mark went to hug his mother, leaving Dad to close the front door.

"I always said she was no good for you," said Duncan. "Why, oh why, did you let her back?"

"Why don't we all go into the parlour and have a nice cup of tea?" suggested Lesley, who returned to the kitchen to put the kettle on.

Left alone for a moment with his son, Duncan found an unopened letter that was propped up on the mantelpiece in the parlour behind the carriage clock. "This came for you, son," he said, "last week. We was hoping you'd call."

Mark looked at the official-looking envelope, which was addressed to _Mr M Slofield_ at his parents' address. He turned it over. On the back was embossed _Jocelyn and Son, Solicitors, High Street, Causton._

"Why did you give this address?" asked Duncan.

"Aren't you going to open it?" asked Lesley, who had returned from the kitchen.

"It's to do with a parking fine," said Mark, putting the letter unopened into his pocket. "It's nothing much."

"We were so worried about you, having that woman back, Matt," said Lesley.

"Don't call me that, Mum!" said Mark.

"Oh, sorry, I keep forgetting. You're Mark now." Mum and Dad exchanged glances.

"Promise me never to call me Matt outside these walls," said Mark urgently.

"Alright, if it makes you feel better," said his mother. "I'd best get the tea," and she padded off into the kitchen, where the singing kettle was already singing.

"You won't be staying long, will you, son?" asked Duncan, shifting uncomfortably in his chair.

"Only a few days," said Mark. "Till she simmers down."

"Because you don't want to leave her alone in that house," said Duncan, "not for long. You don't know what she might do. She might wreck the place."

"She won't do that," said Mark. "She only becomes violent when I'm around."

"She nearly killed you all those years ago," continued his father. "She's mental. She's really bad for you, son, really bad."

"Tea's up," said Lesley, puffing back into the room with a tray laden with tea-pot, milk-jug, sugar-bowl, mugs and biscuits. "You're safe with us," she said, "you know you are."


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four**

Open Day had dawned, and never was such activity seen at the Old Hall. Ellie and David arrived at about ten o'clock, as requested by Violet, and Ellie was put to work straight away making cucumber and fish paste sandwiches in dainty triangles, assisted by Mrs Beecham, who had donned a black uniform and starched white apron, while David went off to the nearest supermarket to buy the necessary quantities of soft drinks. Violet gave somewhat hysterical directions from the sitting-room, interspersed with warnings about an impending attack of migraine, which never, however, materialised. A gardening firm had been brought in from Causton the day before to beautify the extensive garden, even though Tom, the regular gardener, had spent the previous six months weeding, tying in, training and pruning. Trixie arrived at about midday, very much the worse for wear, and plonked herself down on a chair in the middle of the kitchen and lit a cigarette.

"If you're going to smoke that thing can you go outside," said Ellie, who had little time for her wayward sister.

"Oh, alright," said Trixie gracelessly and stumbled into the garden. "Bloody flowers!" and she blew a puff of smoke at a fine bloom of _Golden Showers. _Fleur, by good fortune, had gone to have a singing lesson in the church hall with Betty Bootle, who had promised to be back in good time to man the tea stand which had been erected in the middle of the croquet-lawn. Through all this Dickie had sat reading the _Financial Times_ in the study until he could stand it no more, and at about half-past twelve announced that he was going to the pub for lunch. (Dickie often went to the pub for lunch when he was at home, which he generally was from Friday until Monday, since as a senior partner in the firm of _Braithwaite and Clarke _he felt it appropriate to his position to extend the weekend at either side.)

"Don't forget you've got to be back before two o'clock to greet people and take the money off them!" said his wife as he left.

"Mmm," said Dickie and walked the short distance to the _Horse and Groom_, where he ordered a large gin and tonic and a ham sandwich. Ernest Fish was there, an old buffer with a military moustache who sometimes played golf with Dickie at the golf club, and more frequently croquet with him on his croquet-lawn.

Some disturbance was created by Wishbone, the grey Siamese cat, which had crept into the kitchen unnoticed while the workers were carrying tea-cups and saucers out to the tea stand, and proceeded to eat half a packet of smoked salmon which Mrs Beecham had opened and left on a work surface. Returning, Mrs Beecham scolded the cat, but Violet Braithwaite exclaimed "He doesn't know it's not for him! Poor Wishbone! He's a psychic cat. What are you trying to tell us, Wishbone?" and she gathered up the miscreant and took him into the sitting-room, where he was sick on the sofa.

Betty Bootle arrived with Fleur at about a quarter to two, by which time Dickie, several gins and tonics later, had positioned himself halfway up the driveway at a small desk with a cash box full of pound coins.

"Mummy, Mummy!" said Fleur excitedly, "I can do all of _ The hills are alive _now."

Betty smiled indulgently. "She's really very gifted, you know," she said. Betty Bootle was a spinster of advancing years, with marked lines all over her face and a fervent devotion to the Anglican faith, in which she was regarded locally as the vicar's second-in-command.

"Fleur, go to the music room and do your piano exercises, darling," said Violet, anxious that her _protegée _should not scare off the visitors, who were expected at any minute. "I'm determined that she should get into RADA," she said to Betty when she had gone. "She's a bit timid, but in a few years' time – she will be a star!"

"I'm sure she will," said Betty, who was not at all sure that she would.

Henry Chatsworth-Brooke was the first to arrive and present Dickie with a ten-pound note, but Dickie demurred, saying he could not possibly take money from a man of the cloth. "I'm afraid Priscilla couldn't come," he said, "she's got a bad bout of hay-fever."

"I'm so sorry," murmured Dickie. Henry carried a large bunch of oxeye daisies, which he presented to Miss Bootle.

"Oh, how lovely!" said Betty. "Flowers for the altar tomorrow!"

"I picked them from the hedgerow just now," said Henry. "I thought to myself, 'how fortunate that God has provided such beauty for His veneration!' – and, indeed, the flowers in your garden, Sir Richard, do Him honour."

"Take what you like," said Dickie vaguely.

"Oh no, for these flowers" – and he indicated the oxeye daisies – "are self-seeded, whereas _your _flowers are raised and tended for their delight _in situ_!"

Dickie could not quite follow this theological thesis on the relative merits of flowers, but Henry passed on into the garden, accompanied by Betty Bootle, who promised to put the daisies in water immediately.

It was often said in the village that wherever the vicar went Miss Bootle was sure to follow. In fact, scurrilous rumours had circulated as to the nature of their relationship, but to look at Henry's weather-beaten face, forever smiling, and his untidy mop of thin white hair, and contrast it with Betty's angular features you would not have thought that the subject of sex could possibly have crossed the mind of either of them.

By two-thirty most of those who planned to attend were there. Among the last to, arrive were Tom and Joyce Barnaby. Joyce introduced herself and her husband to Dickie, who was as polite as good manners required. "We must find Betty," she said, searching in the crowded garden, until she saw her dispensing tea from a large gleaming copper urn in the middle of the croquet-lawn.

"Betty!" she said, "this is Tom, my husband."

"I've heard so much about you," said Betty. "a detective inspector! Who would have thought it! Your wife is coming to me next week for a few of my little tips on flower arranging. A cup of tea for you, Henry?", as the vicar, who was never far from Miss Bootle's side, smiled benignly on the inspector and his wife.

At this moment Fleur, who had grown tired of playing the easier _Czerny _exercises on the piano in the music room, raced into the garden and straight into Trixie, who was having a quiet smoke by the lupins.

"Horrible little brat!" said Trixie.

"That's Violet's youngest daughter," explained Betty to Tom and Joyce, whose attention had been drawn by the sudden appearance of the racing young girl, "and the one smoking is her eldest daughter."

"There's quite a difference in their ages," remarked Joyce.

"About sixteen years," said Betty. "And there's one in between. Fleur was the afterthought."

By this time Fleur had found her mother, to whom she said "Mummy, Trixie's being horrid to me."

"She's always horrid," said Violet. "Why don't you go and see the fishes, darling?", and she moved towards the group by the tea stand as Fleur ran off down the slope beyond the croquet-lawn to the large pond, or small lake, which was full of carp.

"Violet, do you know Mrs Barnaby?" called Betty. "Joyce, this is Lady Braithwaite." Joyce's eyes glistened with excitement.

"_Lovely _garden," she said to the lady of the house. "How do you do it?"

"Oh, flowers grow, you know," said Violet absently. "We have a little man who looks after them."

Joyce was about to say something else complimentary when a piercing scream came from the direction of the pond, followed by Fleur. "Mummy, mummy!" she said, sobbing as she ran up the slope, "there's a man in the pond!"

"A man?" Violet frowned. "Whatever do you mean, Fleur dear?" but Fleur buried her face in her mother's bosom.

Tom Barnaby wasted no time in racing down the slope to the edge of the pond, in which lay a young man, face down, decidedly dead. Part of his skull had been bashed in and blood blackened the water round about him.

"Stand back," he said, "stand back!" as some of the visitors had started to walk down the slope out of curiosity. "I want you all inside the house – **now**!"


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five**

"This is an outrage," said Dickie angrily. "How long are we going to be left cooped up like this?" Members of the family and helpers had sequestered themselves in the morning-room, while the paying visitors had been herded into the sitting-room, which Dickie had been obliged graciously to permit, as it was the only room in the house large enough to accommodate all of them.

"Patience, Dickie dear, patience," said Violet, who was gently stroking the grey Siamese cat which lay purring in her lap. "You knew something bad was about to happen, didn't you, Wishbone? That's what you were trying to tell us when you were sick on the sofa," and she kissed the oblivious creature's head.

"Do we have to have that animal in here?" asked Dickie loudly. "I hope they're not helping themselves to my drinks cabinet. What time is it?"

In fact it was five o'clock, and the wiry figure of Dr George Bullard, the forensic pathologist, was bending over the cadaver, which had been laid out on a white sheet on the grass beside the pond. A uniformed policemen stood guard by the entrance to the driveway and another by the side-gate, very near the pond. Sergeant Jones, who had been summoned by Barnaby, noted that the gate was well padlocked, although it would be easy to jump over it.

"Hit by a blunt instrument," said George. "Death would have been instantaneous."

"Time of death, George?"

George felt the body here and felt the body there and then said "I would guess approximately four hours ago. His watch," and he held up his limp left arm, "is still working."

"How approximately, George?"

"Tom, we can't tell until we've done some tests."

"Oh, come on, George!" Tom sounded irascible.

"Alright, then. This chap died no earlier than – " and he looked at his own watch " – twelve thirty and no later than one thirty. Most likely round about one o'clock."

"George, you're a genius!" said Tom, who had sent Joyce to join the family in the morning-room, which she felt entitled to do on account of her friendship with Betty Bootle and thereby the family. "Jones, you can send every-one in the sitting-room home. None of the visitors arrived before two o'clock."

"Yes, sir," said Jones and set off on his errand, but then stopped. "What about Mrs Barnaby, sir?"

"Yes, yes, send her home as well. I'll go back with you in the police-car." Barnaby turned back to George Bullard. "Identification?" he asked.

"None," said George. "No wallet, credit card, season ticket, nothing."

"No money?"

"Only a few coins in his trouser pocket."

"So he can't have come from far away."

"Unless he's a tramp," said George.

"He doesn't look like a tramp to me," said Barnaby, who had noted the well-cut suit and sensible brogues of the dead man. "I must speak to the family. George, just leave him as he is for the time being, will you?"

Tom mounted the slope, crossed the now deserted croquet-lawn and entered the morning-room by the French windows which gave onto the rose-garden.

"And about time too!" shouted Dickie.

"Ladies and gentlemen, I am sorry to keep you waiting. I believe you all know why you are here?" Silence indicated that they knew. "My sergeant will take statements from each of you later, but in the meantime I must ask you not to leave the grounds of this house." Dickie folded his arms furiously. "The deceased unfortunately has no means of identification on him, so I wonder if you would all be prepared" – he slightly stressed 'all' – "to accompany me to view the body. I warn you it will not be a pretty sight."

"Chief Inspector," said Violet in a low voice, "I'm sure we're all dying to see the body. All except Fleur, that is. I hope you don't mind, but I sent her to bed, because she is a very sensitive girl. And she has actually _seen _the body already."

"Quite right, Lady Braithwaite," said Barnaby. "Would the rest of you follow me?"

The little party trooped down to the pond without a word being spoken. When they reached the corpse, which had been turned over so that the worst of his injuries were not visible, they formed a sad little semi-circle round him.

"Do any of you recognize him?" asked Tom, who studied their faces as they all shook their heads and said nothing. "Nobody?"

"He is a mystery man," said David at last, who was holding Ellie's hand tightly.

"He must be a drug dealer," said Violet decisively.

"Don't be so ridiculous," said Dickie. "What would a drug dealer be doing dead in my fishpond?"

"We don't have any drug dealers round here," said Ellie. "This is a respectable neighbourhood."

Trixie said nothing. Betty Bootle held onto Mrs Beecham as if she might fall over.

"If nobody knows anything about him, perhaps you could make your way back to the house? Sergeant Jones will take statements from you."

As soon as they had gone he said "George, he's all yours."

Before going back to the house himself Tom took a look over the padlocked gate. To the left, and only twenty to thirty yards away, was the church of St Simon and St Jude, and just beyond it the church hall. The lane, whose banks were full of colourful wild flowers, bent round to the right past the Old Hall. Tom hopped over the gate, having had a word with the constable on duty there, and walked round to the driveway, just before which two equally narrow roads led off at right angles to each other, the houses of Midsomer Mallow beginning only a few paces' walk away. From the driveway he could see the beckoning building of the _Horse and Groom_ beyond, not more than a hundred yards from the entrance to the Old Hall. Tom walked up the driveway and back into the house to rejoin his sergeant.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter Six**

Tom Barnaby had just finished breakfast when his mobile phone rang.

"Oh, no!" said Joyce, "not on a Sunday!"

"Barnaby … yes … yes … what was the address?" and he scribbled on the side of the box of Diet Bran Flakes in front of him. "Sorry, Joyce," he said, getting up, "this could be important."

"Of course it's important," said Joyce, banging the finished bowls of cereal together, "we can't even go to an Open Day without finding a dead body."

Tom grabbed his jacket and was off, bound for the little house in a backstreet of Midsomer Mallow.

Lesley and Duncan Slofield met him at the door.

"We're so glad you could come," said Lesley. "We had to ring the police station to tell them."

"Can you give me a description of your son?" asked Barnaby.

"Thin – curly hair – thirty years old," said Duncan.

"And when did he go missing?"

"He went out at half-past twelve yesterday," said Lesley. "He told us to keep dinner warm for him – and he never came back."

"Do you know where he went?" asked Barnaby, who by this time had been ushered into the parlour.

"No idea," said Duncan. "But something's happened to him, I'm sure of it."

"Does he live here?" asked Tom. "If he's thirty, doesn't he have a home of his own?"

"Oh, he does," said Lesley, "but we phoned there. And spoke to that woman."

"Trixie Braithwaite," said Duncan, "a nasty piece of work."

Tom's suspicions were by now confirmed. "Does he live with her?" he asked.

"He did," said Lesley, "or, rather, she lived with him."

"Violent sort. Battered him about," said Duncan. "She left him years ago – but then she came back, just the other week."

"And what did Trixie Braithwaite say when you phoned her?"

"Said she had no idea where he was – walked out on her, she said."

"Ma- Mark came here to escape from her," explained Lesley. "Nasty business, thirteen years ago."

"What happened thirteen years ago?"

"She attacked him with a knife," said Duncan. "He was in hospital for three weeks and had twenty stitches."

"I have to tell you," said Tom Barnaby, "that a young man fitting the description of your son was found dead in the fishpond at the Braithwaites' home yesterday afternoon."

Lesley gasped and Duncan looked stoic.

"Would you be prepared to come with me now to the morgue to see if the victim is, in fact, your son?" The Slofields nodded silently.

On the way Duncan cleared his throat and said huskily, "He only came back to the village last year. That's when he bought that house, the one _she__'__s _now living in."

"And before that?" asked Barnaby.

"He lived in London," said Lesley. "He worked for an investment bank for a while. Then we… lost touch with him."

. . .

. . .

. . .

George Bullard whisked the sheet away from the dead man's face as dramatically as if he was performing a magic trick. Lesley nodded and started to cry, while Duncan held her in his arms protectively.

"Do you have any idea what your son was doing at the Braithwaites'?" asked Tom as they walked slowly outside.

Lesley shook her head, too upset to speak.

"That woman is at the bottom of it," said Duncan, "she's a bad lot."

Lesley now sobbed uncontrollably and sat down on a stone bench at the entrance to the morgue. "There, there, don't take on so," said her husband, trying to comfort her.

"Let me take you back home," said Tom, but became aware that George Bullard was signalling to him frantically from inside the building. "Will you excuse me a moment?" he said and walked back to the exposed corpse.

"We've done a more detailed examination of his cranium," said the pathologist. "It appears that he was struck from behind with a single blow from a round, heavy object." He showed Tom the indentation on Mark's skull. "You see – a perfect circle."

"Thank you, George," said Tom and rejoined the bereaved parents.

On the way back Lesley Slofield regained some of her composure. "We'll have to go round," she said, "and sort out his things." A moment later she added "We'll have to face her, Duncan."

"We'll deal with Trixie Braithwaite, Mrs Slofield," said Tom grimly. "My sergeant took your son's address from her. She gave it as _her _address. She never mentioned Mark."

"The cheek of it!" said Duncan. "We can't let her stay there."

"She's a wicked woman, Inspector," said Lesley. "She abandoned a baby at birth."

"Whose baby?" asked Barnaby. "Mark's?"

"Oh, no," said Duncan, squeezing his wife round the waist. "Mark had nothing to do with it. He was as appalled as we were."

"And what happened to the baby?" asked Tom.

"She left it in a doorway," said Lesley, "the slut! It was found and brought up by nuns, somewhere near Fletcher's Cross."

"You don't know where?"

"No," said Duncan. "We don't know where."

As the couple got out at the little house in the backstreet Tom Barnaby handed Duncan his card. "Phone me," he said, "if you remember anything else."

. . .

. . .

. . .

At about the same time as Barnaby received his phone call from the police station David Payton was calmly devouring a large plate of bacon and eggs. Ellie, sitting at the other end of the kitchen table, watched him in silence. Finally she leaned forward and said intensely, "You know who he is, don't you?"

David put down his knife and fork and took a sip of tea. "It was Mark Slofield," he said.

"Then why didn't you tell them?"

David wiped his mouth with his linen napkin. "Ellie, there's something you should know," he said quietly. "The money for _The Professor _arrived in our bank account last Friday. But there was a problem with the contract. Something technical. It had to go back to Slofield for signature." David helped himself to a slice of toast and spread it thickly with butter and then marmalade. "I haven't received it back yet." He bit into the slice of toast with a crunching sound.

"What are you saying?" asked Ellie.

"That, technically, that horse still belongs to me. Unless I get the contract in the post tomorrow." He took another sip of tea.

"David – how _wonderful_!" Ellie stood up and then had another thought. "But why did he die, then?"

"I don't know why he died," said David coolly. Ellie sat down again and watched him.

"I don't trust you, David," she said.

"As a matter of fact," said David, "I'm not sure that I trust you."

"What do you mean by that?" Ellie leaned forward again.

"You're the one who was so desperate to keep _The Professor_," he said. "I think you would do anything to keep that horse."

Ellie stood up. "_I never met the man_," she hissed at him, "remember?"

"So you say," said David, finishing off his cup of tea.

Ellie pushed back her chair and stalked out of the kitchen and into the fresh air. She had to think. She walked over to the stable, where Buster was munching on a bag of oats. "What do you think, Buster?" she asked. After walking round in small circles for a few minutes, the questions revolving round her head in similar fashion, she returned to the house and searched for the card which Detective Sergeant Jones had given her.

. . .

. . .

. . .

Ben Jones was none too pleased to be called out on Sunday morning. As he drove his Ford Focus to the address in Midsomer Mallow he rehearsed the arguments. 'Miss Braithwaite, you denied all knowledge of Mark Slofield – and yet you were living with him. Why did you not tell the truth, Miss Braithwaite?' Trixie, indeed! What a ridiculous name, and an even more ridiculous woman. Dangerous, if Duncan Slofield's account to Barnaby was to be believed. 'Miss Braithwaite, you said you were helping in the kitchen all morning – yet you were seen smoking outside, and we have statements to the effect that you did not arrive before twelve o'clock. Where exactly were you between half-past twelve and half-past one, Miss Braithwaite?' Then there was the question of what she was doing continuing to live in her murdered lover's house… It would need an eviction order to get rid of her if she refused to go and that might be difficult to arrange as she might have some claim… In the meantime, she would have to be prevented from leaving Midsomer Mallow. Would her mother take her in?..

He reached the comfortable modern home on the edge of Midsomer Mallow. The front door was ajar. "Hallo!" he called, stepping inside. "Is anybody there?" He walked into the kitchen. A half-emptied milk bottle stood on the kitchen table and there were dirty dishes by the sink. On the floor there was the evidence of what Ben at first thought was blood but on closer inspection decided must be dried tomato sauce. He walked upstairs. The bed in the main bedroom was unmade. The wardrobe was open. The bird had flown.

Ben's phone buzzed in his pocket.

"Detective Sergeant Jones… yes, good morning, Mrs. Payton." There was quite a long gap. "As much as that? … Yes, I understand. Thank you for the information." Better talk to Barnaby about it, he thought wearily. No point rushing over there. Not on a _Sunday._


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter Seven**

Barnaby and Jones arrived at the Old Hall just as Fleur was having a screaming fit. "You don't understand fish, Mummy!" she yelled. "I hate you, I hate you!" and she raced upstairs as Mrs Beecham showed the detectives into the sitting-room.

"I'm so sorry about Fleur," said Violet, who looked amused. "It's her artistic temperament, you know. She thinks the blood in the pond will poison the fish. Will you stay for lunch? I think Mrs Beecham is giving us her excellent roast beef and Yorkshire pudding."

Ben looked at Tom hopefully, but Tom declined. "Thank you, Lady Braithwaite, another time perhaps. Do you happen to know where your daughter, Trixie, is?"

"Nobody ever knows where Trixie is," said Violet, sinking into the recently-steam-cleaned sofa. "She's a law unto herself. So gifted, too. I was _certain _that she'd make it into RADA and become a great actress. Such a waste of talent. We did everything for her. We bought her a mink coat for her eighteenth birthday, and a flat in Chelsea when she was twenty-one."

"Might she be there now?" asked Jones.

"Oh, no. We sold it when she took up with a painter somewhere in Essex. Lived in a caravan, I believe, like a gypsy. Anyway, I thought she was renting a room in Causton?"

"Do you have the address, Lady Braithwaite?"

"No. Over a butcher's shop, I thought."

"Telephone number?" asked Barnaby.

"Inspector, I don't think you understand. That daughter of mine broke all ties with us years ago. She's a self-willed little madam."

"Then – how did you invite her here?"

"I didn't. Ellie did it for me and made her _promise_ to come. She listens to Ellie, sometimes. But Ellie never tells me where she is, either. At least she's turned out so well, it almost makes up for the black sheep in the family. We're very pleased with Ellie."

"Yesterday you said that you did not recognize the dead man," said Jones. "Does the name 'Mark – Slofield' mean anything to you?"

Both men watched her carefully as she hesitated a moment and then said "No. No, I don't know Mark Slofield."

"We have evidence, Lady Braithwaite, – " began Barnaby.

"Violet," she said quickly. "Do call me Violet."

"We have evidence, Violet, that Trixie was living with Mark Slofield until very recently."

"Well – she could have been – I don't know all her boyfriends. In fact I don't know any of her boyfriends and don't want to."

"Mark Slofield is the name of the man found dead in your pond yesterday."

Barnaby studied the matriarch's face, which showed only shock and horror.

"_You don't tell me!" _she said. "How _dreadful_!"

There was a mewing sound as the grey Siamese crept round the half-opened door. "Wishbone knows where Trixie is, don't you, Wishbone?" She picked up the animal and held it in her arms like a trophy. "Wishbone knows who killed that unfortunate man. He could help you, Inspector. If only cats could speak!"

"Lady Braithwaite," said Jones, who felt that the familiarity accorded to his superior did not extend to him, "can you tell us where your husband is?"

Violet laughed. "You'd better look for him up the road in the _Horse and Groom_," she said. "Mrs Beecham's roast is not to his taste."

They took their leave and exchanged notes. "She can't be telling the truth," said Jones, "and Ellie and David certainly aren't." He then told Barnaby about the phone call he had had from Ellie. "Half a million, that horse is worth, sir. It would be worth killing for that if you'd just lost your job and couldn't pay the bills."

"Could be," said Barnaby. "But it's all too neat and tidy. And anyway, he couldn't keep the horse _and _the money, could he? And _where is Trixie_?"

"Perhaps Ellie knows," suggested Jones. "She knew where Trixie was when her mother didn't – _apparently._"

"Perhaps she does. Now, I'm going to the _Horse and Groom_ to see if I can catch Sir Richard, and you, Jones, I want you to go back to the station and check on Mark Slofield on the database. And any-one else, for that matter. And before you say anything, I know it's Sunday."

"Yes, sir," said Ben with resignation. "Enjoy your drink, sir."


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter Eight**

Lesley Slofield sadly made up the bed in what had been Mark's room. As he had not brought any belongings with him there was not much to tidy up. Sighing, she straightened the counterpane. An envelope on the bedside table caught her eye. It was the envelope they had received the week before, addressed to Mark. It had been opened, but the letter was still inside. She took it out and started to read it.

"Duncan," she said, descending the stairs slowly, "what do you make of this?" She showed the letter to her husband, who was sitting in the parlour enjoying a strong cup of tea. "It doesn't sound like a parking fine to me."

Duncan examined the letter. _'__Dear Mr Slofield,__'_he read, _'__We have to tell you that, based on your present means and good character, we have no reason to doubt that your case will meet with a sympathetic hearing by the Court.__'_

"What can it mean?" asked Lesley.

Duncan looked thoughtful. "Lesley," he said, "this tea has got a bit cold. Would you mind making a fresh pot?"

"Of course, dear." She padded into the kitchen. Duncan went into the hall and picked up the telephone handset.

. . .

. . .

. . .

There was no sign of Dickie Braithwaite in the _Horse and Groom._ In fact there was nobody there apart from a young couple in the corner eating rather dry-looking sandwiches and an elderly gentleman with a military moustache drinking gin and tonic at the end of the bar.

"What can I get you, sir?" asked the landlord pleasantly.

"I am Detective Chief Inspector Barnaby of Causton CID and I am conducting a murder investigation," said Tom, producing his warrant card.

The landlord whistled. "Who's been murdered then?"

"Mr Mark Slofield, of this village. Do you know him?"

The landlord thought for a moment. "Can't say that I do. But then lots as come in here I don't know, not the names like."

"But I take it that you do know who Sir Richard Braithwaite is?"

"Dickie? You've just missed him, sir. Left not five minutes ago. Most weekends he's in here lunch times. Isn't that right, Ernie?"

The elderly gentleman at the end of the bar turned his watery eyes towards Barnaby. "Perhaps I can help," he said and held out his hand. "Ernest Fish is the name. I am a personal friend of Dickie's."

"In that case, Mr Fish – "

"Colonel Fish," said he, "of the Royal Marines, retired. Damn fine chap, Dickie. Plays a nifty round of golf. I'm booked to play croquet with him tomorrow, as a matter of fact, if the weather stays fine."

"And – did you happen to be here yesterday at lunchtime, Colonel Fish?"

"Ernie's always here," said the landlord disrespectfully.

"I certainly was," said Colonel Fish, ignoring the last remark. "I suppose you'll want to know when Braithwaite was here."

"Please," said Barnaby.

Colonel Fish fingered his moustache which was wet with gin and tonic and said, "He was here until one thirty. Just about then, I should say. Wouldn't you, Phil?"

"I never notice when people come and go," said Phil, who was draining the dregs of a barrel of bitter into a large metal bucket. "Too much to do."

"And did you happen to notice when he came into the pub?" asked Tom.

"I don't have a stopwatch on me," said the Colonel, "but my training makes me notice things like that. A chap's got to know what the time is, don't you think?"

"In that case – when did he come in?"

"Twelve thirty. Ordered a ham sandwich. That was it. Kept talking to me about his Open Day. Can't stand things like that myself." Ernest finished his gin and tonic. "Fill 'er up, Phil, there's a good lad."

"Well, thank you, Colonel Fish, you've been most helpful," said Tom, handing him his card. "In case you remember anything else," he said.

. . .

. . .

. . .

"Overtime, is it, Sergeant?" The constable at the duty desk smirked as Jones brushed past.

"Just leave it. I'm not in the mood." Ben woke the computer and searched in the criminal records database for ** Mark Slofield**. The computer blew a raspberry and asked _'__Do you mean __**Matthew Slofield**__?__'_Ben pressed _'__Yes__'_. The mugshot was clear. He peered at the screen.

"Sir… The victim was Matthew Slofield, not Mark Slofield. He was convicted of embezzlement of funds twelve years ago. He defrauded a City bank in London and was given a six-month jail sentence. Just thought you ought to know."


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter Nine**

"More tea, Betty?" Violet held the Spode teapot over Betty Bootle's cup.

"Just half a cup," said Betty. Violet poured.

"Apparently that man was called Mark Slofield," said Violet.

"Really, dear?" Betty poured in the milk. "Best put it out of your mind, Vi."

Violet laughed a nervous laugh. The strains of _Abide with me _wafted into the sitting-room of the Old Hall through the open French doors. "Dickie will be back from evensong soon," she said.

"Henry is so pleased," said Betty, taking a sip of tea, "that Dickie goes every Sunday."

"As you know, it's not my scene," said Violet. "I don't find the church – _spiritual _enough."

"Yes, dear."

Violet laughed again. "Do you remember all those years ago when we dug up half the floorboards in the morning room? I was sure there was a spirit there."

"Yes, dear. I remember."

Violet gently stroked the cat that lay purring in her lap. "Dickie was _furious _when he got home from the office. We did make rather a mess. Wishbone knows all about it, don't you, Wishbone?"

"That cat is a godsend," said Betty.

"Wishbone knows who killed that man and how he got there." The church clock struck five o'clock. "How about a slice of lemon sponge, Betty? Mrs Beecham baked it this morning."

"Well – _half _a slice, then," Betty said. Violet took the cake knife and cut her old friend a modest slice.

There was a clattering noise as Fleur came down the stairs, holding a little rag doll in her hands. "Mummy," she said, "say 'hello' to Willy." Willy was a boy with long black hair wearing blue shorts.

Violet's countenance suddenly changed. "Where did you find that thing, Fleur?" she asked.

"In the toy cupboard. You gave it to me when I was six." Fleur sat Willy down on the sofa beside her mother, who picked up the cake knife and forcefully stabbed the little rag doll several times.

"Take that," she shouted, "Willy!"

Fleur burst into tears and ran outside. Betty Bootle looked shocked. "Violet, dear – "

"Oh, I'm so sorry," said Violet, dropping the knife and breathing heavily. "I don't know what came over me."

"It's been a stressful weekend," said Betty, getting up. "Why don't you go and lie down, Vi?"

"Yes," said Violet, who was helped to her feet by Miss Bootle. "I – I think I feel a migraine coming on."

Betty had got her hostess halfway up the stairs when there was a shrill, piercing scream from outside. "Mummy, Mummy!" screamed Fleur, racing back towards the sitting-room. "There's another man in the pond!"

. . .

. . .

. . .

"Same as before, Tom," said the white-clad Dr Bullard, bending over the body that had been laid out on a white sheet beside the pond. "A single blow to the back of the head with a heavy blunt instrument. See the outline? Perfectly circular," and he demonstrated the indentation in his skull. "Again, no identification on him."

"But I recognize him," said Barnaby. "It's Duncan Slofield. Time of death, George?"

"This one's easier," said Bullard. "He's still warm. He died not more than two hours ago."

"So not before four o'clock?" asked Ben Jones, who had been called back to Midsomer Mallow almost as soon as he got home and put his feet up.

"And not after five o'clock. Most likely between four fifteen and four forty-five."

"Who's in the house?" asked Barnaby.

"The girl who found him, Lady Braithwaite and Sir Richard," said Jones. "And a Miss Bootle."

"Ah, Miss Bootle," said Tom.

But only Sir Richard Braithwaite presented himself when Ben and Tom walked into the sitting-room. "Another mystery man, is it, Inspector?" he asked, reclining in his favourite armchair with a glass of gin and tonic.

"On the contrary," said Barnaby. "Does the name of Slofield mean anything to you, sir?"

Dickie thought for a moment. "Can't say that it does," he said.

"Yet two men of that name, father and son, have been found dead in your pond."

"Really?" said Dickie. "How most extraordinary!"

"What about your ladies?" asked Jones.

"I'm afraid you can't see the ladies," said Dickie, rising from his armchair. "They've gone upstairs."

"What, all of them?" asked Barnaby.

"Fleur found the body. She's a young girl and naturally she's very upset. And my wife is being comforted by Betty Bootle."

"But your wife and Miss Bootle were here when the body was found, Sir Richard?"

"That's right. I got in from evensong at about ten past five."

"I take it you were seen at evensong, sir," said Jones.

"Of course I was. Ask Henry, the _padre_."

"Which started when, sir?"

"Four o'clock. It's called evensong but people do things early in these parts."

"Why, exactly," asked Barnaby, "can I not talk to your wife?"

"She's had an attack of migraine. And Betty is looking after her. A tower of strength, that woman. Violet's been sedated, you see." Dickie approached Tom and said confidentially, "She'll be alright in the morning. But just go easy on her, Inspector. She's a bit on edge, if you know what I mean."

Barnaby and Jones looked at each other.

"Are you sure that your daughter, Trixie, is not also upstairs?" asked Jones.

"Trixie?" Dickie looked perplexed. "Certainly not! If you want to know about Trixie you'd better ask Ellie. Ellie is the only one she'll speak to, and that's not often. I take it you've got her address?"

Tom and Ben had Ellie's address.


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter Ten**

Anxiety was etched on Lesley Slofield's face when she opened the door. "Two of you!" she said. "It's bad news, isn't it?"

"This is Detective Sergeant Jones," said Barnaby. "Can we go into the parlour, please?"

"What's happened to Duncan?" Lesley closed the door behind the two policemen but did not move from the hallway.

"I really think you should be sitting down, Mrs Slofield," said Jones.

"He's never missed his tea in thirty-five years," said Lesley. "Where is he?"

"I'm afraid your husband was found dead in the fishpond at the Braithwaites' late this afternoon," said Tom.

"Was he – " Lesley mouthed.

"Murdered," said Jones.

Lesley groaned and collapsed on the chair beside the telephone. "Oh, no! Oh, God! What is it about my family? Why are we being targeted?"

"That's what we would like to know," said Barnaby. "Did he say he was going there?"

Lesley shook her head. "He doesn't – didn't – know them, and nor do I," and she started sobbing quietly.

"Mrs Slofield – Lesley – perhaps tomorrow – would be a better time to talk?"

She wiped the tears from her cheek with the back of her hand and said "No. Tell me what happened."

"Did you know where he was going?" asked Jones.

"No. He went out at about four o'clock saying he'd be back in time for tea. We always eat at half past six, Inspector. And it was his favourite too – fish fingers." She sniffled.

Tom noticed a letter beside the telephone. The heading caught his eye. "Do you mind if I take this letter, Lesley?" he asked, picking it up.

"No, take it," she said. "It doesn't make any sense to me."

. . .

. . .

. . .

Ellie had set out early for her morning ride on Buster and was therefore not at home when the postman rang the doorbell. David, however, was at home, but he hid in the bathroom until he heard the mail-van driving away and then crept downstairs. On the mat was a printed card. _'__We are sorry you were out when we called. We have tried to deliver a __**(x) **__letter which __**(x) **__requires a signature__…'_. David tore the card up into little pieces which he hid at the bottom of the swing bin in the kitchen. He switched on the kettle and reached for a jar of _Nescafé._ The noise of the boiling water masked the sound of another vehicle pulling up outside and to his surprise David heard another ring at the door. He tiptoed to the front room of the cottage and peered out. Seeing a police car there, he rushed back into the kitchen and out of the back door and straight into the arms of a uniformed policeman.

"Going somewhere, are we, sir?" said the policeman and David shame-facedly returned to the front door to admit Ben Jones.

"My wife's out."

"It was you I wanted to see, sir," said Ben. In your statement you said that you did not recognize the deceased, Matthew Slofield. Yet I believe you recently sold him a racehorse. Is that correct, sir?"

"Not Matthew – Mark Slofield," said David.

"How long have you known Mr Slofield for, sir?"

"Not long – I don't really know him."

"But you did meet him, didn't you, sir? And how did you know who to contact to sell the horse? Did you advertise it for sale? Or did you know Mr Slofield well before that?"

"_No_," said David loudly, and then more calmly "No. I don't know him."

"This is a murder investigation, Mr Payton," said Ben with emphasis, "and you could be charged with obstruction if you deliberately withhold vital evidence.."

"Look – Sergeant." There was a note of desperation in David's voice. "My wife is passionate about horses. I couldn't tell her before now. Anyway, that contract is void after today."

"Then you'll have to return the money, won't you, sir?"

"To a dead man?"

"To his estate. Who is handling the contract?"

"Mr Jocelyn, in Causton." (That figures, thought Jones.)

"I'm not so interested in a shady deal to do with horses," said Ben, "but I am interested in who killed Matthew Slofield and his father."

"His father?" David looked genuinely surprised.

"At the moment I find your story unconvincing." Jones paused a moment. David looked straight ahead of him, as if on parade. "When did you first meet Matthew Slofield, sir?"

"Why do you keep calling him that?"

"_When did you meet him, sir_?"

"About a month ago – perhaps a bit less."

"How?"

David sat down on a Windsor chair. "Trixie introduced us."

"Trixie. Is she upstairs, sir? Are you hiding her?"

"Good God, no. Take a look if you like. I've no idea where she is."

Ben did take a look, while PC Angel kept guard downstairs to prevent any further attempts at escape, but found no evidence of Trixie or of anything else out of the ordinary.


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter Eleven**

"That's very good, Joyce," said Betty, re-arranging the lilies in Joyce's vase and removing some wilting carnations. "What you have to do is look at it from a distance, like a work of art." She retreated halfway down the hall and peered at Joyce's offering. "Visualize it as a semi-sphere, dear."

"I'll never be as good as you, Betty," said Joyce, "there's such a lot you can do. Flower-arranging, singing – "

"Oh, you're thinking of Fleur," said Betty, inserting some more greenery into the vase. "She's very good – but, oh dear, her mother has such high expectations!"

"What about the latest murder?" asked Joyce, her eyes shining.

"Has there been another one, dear?" asked Betty, poking at some of the shorter-stemmed roses.

"Duncan Slofield! Tom was called round there yesterday afternoon. Fleur found him."

Betty Bootle continued poking at the display and said rather quietly "I really am worried about that girl's state of mind." She turned round to face Joyce. "I suppose you know she was adopted?"

"_Adopted?"_

Betty pulled up a chair and said "They keep it quiet. But Violet couldn't have children. Violet and I go back a long way."

"I did think there was rather an age difference," said Joyce.

"They were all adopted," said Betty. "Ellie was the first – and she's turned out rather well. Then they adopted Trixie, although she was older."

"Quite a handful, I should think."

"You never can tell when you don't know who the parents are," said Betty, going over to the sink in the corner and filling a fresh vase with water. "Years later, after Trixie had rejected them, they adopted Fleur. A sort of consolation prize."

"Oh, but Fleur is so clever!"

"Yes – " said Betty doubtfully and then sat down. "You see, Joyce, they are both highly-strung. Fleur and Violet. They are alike in that way. I really do wonder what these murders are going to do to their minds."

"Tom will sort it out," said Joyce.

"Tom – yes – he's going to pick you up, isn't he?"

"He should be here any minute." Joyce looked out of the window.

"It must be so exciting having a detective as one's husband!" said Betty.

"Exciting isn't the word," said Joyce. "He's never satisfied if there isn't a murder or two to solve."

At that moment they heard the solid _clunk! _of the car door as Tom got out of the black Jaguar and walked into the church hall. "Betty!" he said, "I hear you've been performing miracles!"

"Well, we aren't Constance Spry," said Betty modestly, "but we do our best."

"Betty's been telling me that all the Braithwaite girls were adopted," said Joyce excitedly.

"Really?" Tom turned to the miracle-worker. "What else do you know about the Braithwaites, Miss Bootle?"

"Oh, nothing much," said Betty, looking at her feet.

"Betty can teach flower-arranging – and singing!" said Joyce.

"Were you a music teacher?" asked Tom.

"I was all sorts of things," said Betty. "My main job when I was younger was as a midwife."

"A midwife? I bet you know a lot of family secrets, then?"

"It's all so different now. When I was working nobody ever asked about it. Now they all want to know everything."

"Indeed they do," said Tom as he escorted his wife outside.

. . .

. . .

. . .

"What do you mean, he can't see me?" stormed Barnaby.

"He's in Newmarket, sir."

"The home of horse racing. What is Jocelyn doing there?"

"I don't know, sir," said Jones, "but his secretary says he sends his regards."

"His regards!" Barnaby recalled the ancient solicitor who had made a fortune out of proving the wills of several wealthy Midsomer residents who had died unexpectedly. Must be over ninety by now, he thought. "What about his son?"

"Mr Jocelyn junior is abroad at the moment," said Jones. "But he will be happy to see you tomorrow afternoon."

Barnaby started to walk out of the office in disgust.

"There's another message, sir. Sir Richard Braithwaite has asked you to call at the Old Hall this evening."

"Is that it?" Barnaby turned round.

"He didn't say anything else, except that he had to talk to you in confidence."

"Well, thank you, Jones, I will talk to him in confidence - depending on what he says."

"Yes, sir."

"In the meantime, find out if there are any convents within a ten mile radius of Fletcher's Cross."

"Yes, sir."

"And while you're at it," continued Barnaby, "go to every butcher's shop in Causton and see if they have rented rooms upstairs. If they do, try to find Trixie Braithwaite."

"Yes, sir." Jones put his head in his hands.

. . .

. . .

. . .

"Ah, Inspector!" said Dickie as Tom was ushered into the sitting-room of the Old Hall later that evening. "Can I get you a gin and tonic?"

"Thank you, Sir Richard, but this is business."

"Yes – of course. The thing is, Barnaby, I played a game of croquet with Ernie Fish this afternoon. Beat me hollow, I'm afraid to say."

"Yes, sir?"

"Well – I noticed that one of the mallets is missing – or rather, Ernie noticed it. He pointed it out to me. There are four in a set, but today there are only three."

"Can you show me one of these mallets, sir?"

"Of course. Follow me." Dickie led the way outside and to a small wooden shed below the croquet-lawn and above the pond. "Here." He extracted a mallet and passed it to Tom, who noted the perfectly circular head and long handle. He weighed it in his hand and judged it to be about three pounds.

"Was nothing else taken, Sir Richard?"

"No. Not so far as I know. Most of the stuff in this shed is complete junk."

"And it was gone by – when?"

"Before two-thirty this afternoon. That's when Fish called round."

Barnaby examined the rusting metal clasp on the door. "Do you not lock this, sir?"

"Hardly worth it," said Dickie.

As they walked back towards the house Tom asked "Why did you call me round to tell me this in confidence?"

"Because of the ladies," said Dickie. "They are very upset by these murders and I don't want them distressed any more by policemen in uniform crawling all over the place."

"How very considerate of you, Sir Richard," said Barnaby. "I take it your wife is still resting upstairs?"

"She is." The two men stopped outside the open French doors of the sitting-room. "To tell you the truth, Barnaby, and I'd be grateful if you would keep this to yourself, my wife is slightly neurotic. She's been like that ever since – well, since Trixie walked out on us."

"Trixie, to whom she did not give birth."

Dickie looked at Barnaby and then at the ground. "Ah. You know about that."

"Why don't you tell me in your own words, Sir Richard?"

Dickie walked into the sitting-room and across to the drinks cabinet, where he poured himself a large gin and tonic. "Violet was desperate to have children. We tried and tried but nothing happened. At last we went to a doctor, a fertility expert in Harley Street. It was her tubes, nothing to do with me." He took a gulp of gin and tonic. "Violet was in tears almost every day. So we adopted. Both Ellie and Trixie had unknown parents and had been placed in a Catholic orphanage near Fletcher's Cross."

"Do you have the address, sir?"

"It closed down years ago. Anyway, we lavished love on them and brought them up the same. Look how Trixie has repaid us."

"Trixie. And you have no idea where she is now?"

"None at all." Dickie took another slurp of gin and tonic.

"What about Fleur, sir?"

"That was later. Violet got broody again after Trixie disappointed us so badly. So we got another one. I really think she would have gone round the bend if it hadn't been for Fleur."

"And did she come from the same orphanage, sir?"

Before Dickie could answer, Mrs Beecham opened the door and announced "The Reverend Henry Chatsworth-Brooke is here to see you, sir."

"Dickie, I hope I'm not intruding," said Henry, entering. He stopped short on seeing Tom in the room. "Inspector Barnaby, isn't it? How fortunate that you are here!"

"Indeed, sir?"

"It was just that – it's probably nothing at all, hardly worth mentioning. But you remember the Open Day?"

"I do."

"It was such a lovely day – bright sunshine, I mean. So spoiled by that poor, unfortunate man… we did pray for him yesterday, didn't we, Dickie?"

"Of course we did," said Dickie.

"Getting back to what you were going to tell us...?" put in Barnaby.

"Oh, yes. Well, as soon as I had lunch I told my wife 'Priscilla,' I said, 'I am going to gather wild flowers for the glory of our Lord.' And so I did. What do you think of that?"

Neither of his listeners made any comment.

"I went out and picked some wild flowers for Betty. She always appreciates wild flowers for the altar. All along here, and up past the church hall, and even beyond the vicarage, grow the most beautiful wild flowers, to the glory of God."

Dickie coughed, remembering the bunch of oxeye daisies that Henry had presented to Miss Bootle on Saturday afternoon. "How does that concern the Inspector?" he asked.

"Oh, not at all, not at all," said Henry. "It's just that I happened to notice somebody in the lane, right by your side-gate, Dickie, that's all."

"Who was it?" asked Dickie.

"I couldn't see the face. I was some way away, near the church hall, but it struck me as odd that this person - and I cannot be absolutely positive as to the sex, Inspector - appeared to be _waiting _by the side-gate."

"But surely you must have come past this person in order to come into the Old Hall?" suggested Barnaby.

"That was later, Inspector. I'm afraid I was tempted to go further round the corner - away from the church hall – to pick some particularly glorious specimens. And then I looked at my watch, because I didn't want to arrive early at Dickie's do. It was ten past one – that was it, because I went home to pass the time. I offered to help Priscilla with the washing-up. But I think I was the first to arrive, wasn't I, Dickie?"

"You were, Henry," said Dickie.

"And when you came past the side-gate…?" asked Tom.

"By that time – and it must have been just before two o'clock – he, or she, had gone. It really is of no consequence. I just thought I ought to mention it."


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter Twelve**

The late morning sun was streaming into the vicar's study as Henry wrestled with the following Sunday's sermon, which he liked to get out of the way on Tuesday, whenever possible. Saint Matthew chapter 10, verse 39, he thought. _'__He that findeth his life shall lose it: and he that loseth his life for my sake shall find it.__' _Very apt, except that, as far as he knew, neither of the dead men had been practising Christians. The telephone on his desk rang.

"St Simon and St Jude vicarage … good morning, Dickie."

"I'm very worried about Violet," said Dickie down the phone. "When I left this morning she seemed… not very well. But I had to come up to town, Henry, there's so much to do with so many blue chips being marked down. State of the market, you know."

"Of course," murmured Henry, who did not know at all.

"I was wondering - do you think you could pop round and see her in about half-an-hour? Just before lunch, that's a good time to talk to her. I'm sure she would like a friendly chat with you."

"Certainly, Dickie," said Henry, looking at the grandfather clock in the corner. "I'll be around about twelve o'clock, then."

"You're a brick," said Dickie. "I'll be home myself later this evening," and he put the phone down.

. . .

. . .

. . .

"_Raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens,_

"_Bright copper kettles and warm woollen mittens," _shouted Fleur as loudly as she could.

Betty stopped playing. "Fleur, darling, you don't have to sing everything at the top of your voice. Put a little more feeling into it."

She was about to start playing again when the door of the church hall opened and Violet Braithwaite walked slowly in, staring straight ahead of her as if she was sleep-walking.

"Violet, dear, whatever is the matter?" asked Betty.

"Body – in the pond," mumbled Violet incoherently, "body – in the pond."

Fleur screamed and put her hands over her ears while Betty went over to her mother and put her arms round her shoulders. "Yes, dear, there was a body in the pond on Saturday. And another one on Sunday, wasn't there? Now why don't you go home and lie down?"

"Body – in the pond," muttered Violet as Betty guided her out of the church building and towards the Old Hall.

"Fleur – come along with us. And stay in sight." Betty helped Violet along the lane the short distance to the Old Hall, while Fleur trailed behind. As soon as she had got her patient inside the sitting-room she ordered Fleur to her bedroom at once. Seeing that no sense could be got out of Violet, she then walked her up the stairs and into her own bedroom. _'__Oh, dear,__'_she thought. _'__Dickie won__'__t be back until after seven o__'__clock and it__'__s not six yet.'_

_. . ._

_. . ._

_. . ._

"I'm so glad you could come," said Ernie Fish, half-rising from his stool at the end of the bar, "I didn't want to say anything over the phone."

"What did you want to tell me, Colonel Fish?" asked Barnaby, who was carrying a dossier of papers in one hand. The evening crowd had already started to assemble in _The Horse and Groom _and Phil was busy serving thirsty customers.

"I don't suppose it means anything," said the elderly gentleman, "but I was thinking about that day when Dickie spoke to me. Saturday, wasn't it?"

Barnaby nodded.

"Well, that's just it. He talked to me, a lot. Now if I ever see him in here I always greet him and he always greets me because he's a decent sort of fellow, but we don't always talk. I'm too interested in my drink, d'you see?"

"I can believe it, sir. I believe he talked to you about the Open Day?"

"That's right. But I don't know why he went on about it so much. He as much as said that he hated having it at all. And I suppose Dickie told you about the missing mallet?"

"He did, sir."

"Rum business, that," said Ernie, contemplating his gin and tonic. "I told him he should tell the police."

"And was that – all you were going to tell me?" asked Tom.

"Not exactly." Ernie cleared his throat and took a draught of gin and tonic. "It's rather delicate. He'd half eaten his ham sandwich – I did tell you that he ordered a ham sandwich, didn't I? – and drunk a double gin and tonic or two – two, it was – when he went to the Gents." Ernie paused and cleared his throat again. "To put not too fine a point on it, Inspector, he spent a devil of a time in there. Couldn't think what had happened to him."

"But he reappeared?"

"Yes, he did."

"How long did Sir Richard spend in the Gents?"

"Ten minutes – eleven minutes. Eleven minutes, I should say. Pays to have a keen sense of time, don't you think?"

"It certainly does, sir," said Barnaby.

"I'd rather you kept it under your hat, Inspector. Don't want Dickie to think I'm timing him when he goes to the Gents. Not a decent thing to talk about. But it's a hell of a time for a widdle, wouldn't you agree?"

Barnaby did agree. After thanking him for his information, he took his leave of Ernie Fish, but before leaving the pub altogether he paid a visit to the Gents himself.


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter Thirteen**

It was ten past seven when Dickie crossed the threshold of the Old Hall.

"Hello, I'm back!" he called in a sing-song voice. Silence. He went into the sitting-room. There was nobody there. Only Wishbone lay purring in his favourite armchair. "Get out of there, damn cat!" said Dickie, shooing it away. Wishbone slunk off with a squeaky protest and Dickie, sighing, crossed to the drinks cabinet and started to pour himself a large gin and tonic. Then he heard somebody coming downstairs.

"Dickie!" said Betty, "thank God you're here! I've been comforting Vi. She's half out of her mind, you know."

"What is it this time?" Dickie took a mouthful of the restorative drink. "Oh, that's better!"

"She thinks she's seen another body in the pond," said Betty softly.

"And has she?"

"I'm sure it's all in her head. You know how she is, Dickie."

"But shouldn't we at least have a look?" asked Dickie. He threw open the French doors and marched fearlessly down to the pond, which by now had been rather ineffectually cordoned off with police tape. Betty followed, rather more timorously. There in the water, face up this time, floated the body of another man. It was quite unmistakably the Reverend Henry Chatsworth-Brooke.

. . .

. . .

. . .

When Barnaby and Jones arrived at the Old Hall twenty minutes later it was with the back-up of two police-cars, lights flashing. George Bullard arrived with his team at almost the same moment and proceeded to the pond, where they soon established that the vicar had suffered the same pattern of injury as had befallen the previous victims.

Betty was sitting on the sofa, bolt upright, and Dickie was in his usual armchair, his usual gin and tonic beside him.

"Another victim in your fishpond, Sir Richard," said Barnaby, who was carrying a dossier of papers in his hand.

"It's ghastly, quite ghastly," said Dickie. "Can you get to the bottom of it, Inspector?"

"Oh, I think so," said Tom.

"What's going on?" Roused by the commotion, Violet had crept downstairs and now stood in the doorway, swaying slightly, as if drunk.

"Vi, do you really think you ought to – " began Betty, standing up.

"I'm very grateful for your presence, Lady Braithwaite," said Barnaby, as Jones escorted her to the safety of the sofa, where Betty, who had sat down again, held her hand and looked into her eyes meaningfully.

"You told us, Miss Bootle," continued Tom, "that Ellie, Trixie and Fleur were all adopted. That wasn't – strictly – true, was it, Betty?" Betty let go of Violet's hand and looked at Tom's face silently. "It wasn't true of Fleur, was it? Because Fleur did not come from an orphanage, did she? Betty?"

Betty looked down at her hands, which she now clasped together as if in prayer. "She is Trixie's daughter," she said without looking up, "I delivered her."

"_Betty!" _Violet's eyes flashed. "You _promised_!"

"I'm afraid promises to hide the truth are invalid now," said Tom. "And the father was Matthew Slofield, wasn't he?"

Violet began to cry. "I never knew his surname – never met him," she said. "Dickie dealt with all that side of things."

Tom knelt down in front of Violet and looked up at her. "I want to believe you, Violet," he said.

"How was I to know that man in the pond was Fleur's father?" she whimpered. Betty now stroked her cheek and said soothingly, "There, there, dear, it's all over now."

Dickie got up while Tom was kneeling in front of his wife and went as if to refill his glass with gin, but instead produced a croquet mallet from behind the drinks cabinet and started to run towards Barnaby, mallet held high. He was wrestled to the ground by Jones, who managed to snap handcuffs on his wrists. The croquet mallet bounced onto the carpet, its head stained with dried blood.

"Richard Braithwaite, I am arresting you on suspicion of the murder of Matthew Slofield, Duncan Slofield and the Reverend Henry Chatsworth-Brooke," said Jones.

"_No!" _moaned Violet. _"It can't be Dickie!"_

Barnaby stood up and addressed the prostrate suspect. "This letter," he said, drawing such an object from the dossier in his hand, "is from Mr Jocelyn, Solicitor, to Matthew Slofield shortly before his death. I saw Mr Jocelyn, junior, today, and he told me that Matthew had applied to the High Court for the custody of his daughter, Fleur."

"But – I thought the man in the pond was called Mark," said Violet, who had regained her composure.

"Matthew, who changed his name to Mark, in view of a conviction for embezzlement which he hoped would be overlooked. And you, Sir Richard and Lady Braithwaite, convinced the High Court to make Fleur your ward and then brought her up as your own daughter."

"I tried to persuade the young man to do the honest thing," shouted Dickie, who was slowly helped to his feet by Jones, "even though he was only seventeen and Trixie sixteen. But he was feckless and wanted nothing to do with his daughter, or Trixie. Trixie was even worse, abandoning her like that. So we had to take her in and force Trixie to keep quiet about it."

"And me," said Betty, blowing her nose.

"She hardly ever saw her anyway," said Violet. "She didn't want to know her."

"But Matthew, now Mark, had made a small fortune after his brush with the law, this time legally, and was a reformed character. He stood every chance of getting her back. But you couldn't let that happen, could you, Sir Richard, because you loved Fleur too much?"

"She couldn't go back - to _him_!" snarled Dickie.

"So when Matthew phoned you to ask for a meeting, any time, any place, to discuss it, hoping to avoid a court hearing, you arranged to meet him here, at the side-gate, before the Open Day. Was that at one o'clock?"

Dickie nodded.

"But Dickie went to the pub and didn't come back until one thirty!" said Violet.

"Yes, but a certain Colonel Fish, whom you were so careful to engage in conversation at the pub, noticed that you spent an unusually long time in the gentlemen's toilet facilities. The Gents at the _Horse and Groom_ has another exit, directly onto the car park, as I discovered this evening. So you had Matthew waiting for you at one o'clock. Eleven minutes was just enough time to meet him, via the Gents, kill him with your mallet, throw his body into the pond and be back in time to finish your ham sandwich. Am I right, Sir Richard?"

"Dickie, is this true?" Violet now rose to her feet.

"The man was a guttersnipe," snarled Dickie. "And as for that useless father of his – "

"Yes, Duncan. He put two and two together, didn't he, when he found this letter? Because only he knew the true identity of Trixie's child. His wife believed, and still believes, that that child was not Matthew's and that she was brought up by nuns somewhere near Fletcher's Cross."

"There is no convent near Fletcher's Cross," said Jones.

"Duncan was easy," said Dickie. "The pathetic man wanted to strike a deal with me. I had him waiting at the side-gate at four thirty last Sunday."

"But you were in church then!" exclaimed Violet.

"He was seen going into church and he was seen leaving," said Barnaby, "but there must have been plenty of opportunity during the prayers to slip out unnoticed."

"And what about Henry?" asked Betty indignantly.

As Dickie said nothing, Tom continued. "The vicar, unfortunately, announced to both of us that he had noticed somebody waiting at the side-gate at about the time Matthew was killed, while he was collecting wild flowers to give to you, Betty. He said he couldn't see who it was, but you couldn't take the risk, could you, sir?"

"Dickie went to the office today!" said Violet. "He only got home half-an-hour ago."

"I very much doubt that," said Tom. "What was it, Sir Richard? A phone call on your mobile asking Henry to go and see your wife? We can soon prove that. He would have to walk past the side-gate to get here."

"Why, oh, why, Dickie?" asked Violet beseechingly. "Why did you have to put me through all this?"

"Because you're mad, woman," said Dickie as he was marched outside and into the waiting police-car.

"And now, once again, Betty, please tell me the truth. Where is Trixie?" asked Tom gently.

Betty hesitated a moment and then said quietly, "She's staying with me. She knew she would be suspected of Matthew's murder and the silly girl needed somewhere to hide."

. . .

. . .

. . .

It was a week later and Joyce was preparing lunch. Tom was absorbed in the crossword puzzle of the _Causton Echo._

"Isn't it marvellous," said Joyce.

"Isn't what marvellous?" asked Tom grumpily.

"Fleur has landed the part of Mariain _The Sound of Music._ Apparently it's all thanks to Betty."

"Oh – yes. Joyce, I don't want to hear any more about the Braithwaites."

Joyce laughed. "Of course not. Come and sit down."

"I just can't get one clue," said Tom, reluctantly leaving his paper. " 'Old TV game show makes sparks fly.' Ten letters, ends in _'__N__'__._"

Joyce thought for a moment. "Generation," she said. "You remember 'The Generation Game', with Bruce Forsyth. Generating electricity."

"Of course," said Tom. "Joyce, that's the very clue I needed. There was something wrong with the generations."

Joyce brought a covered serving-dish from the kitchen and put it in front of him.

"What is it?" he asked.

"Fish. Red mullet, in fact, with croquette potatoes."

"Ah," said Tom.

**THE END**


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